POTO Pt 1, 2, 3, 4, The Bridge's Ashes
by kennahuliagulia
Summary: Christine left Erik, and now Raoul. She's going to America--for a fresh start--to escape from her misery. But can she truly escape from her past mistakes, and her new regrets? And will the Phantom STAY in the past?...all chapters can be found here now...
1. Pt1, Remorse and the Glance Behind

**A/N: **So I know this is wordy. But just let me say that's because I'm obsessed with PotO and I love dissecting every bit of it. Also, it's mainly because, in watching the movie, I always took their facial expressions to be the cover for an abundance of emotions & thoughts even they, themselves, couldn't decipher, so...I tried to put how I thought everyone else (mainly Christine) would be thinking, how their train of thought would chug along, and essentially what was going on _inside _their minds. You know, what led them to make the decisions they did, that sort of thing. :) So, I hope you enjoy.

P.S.--My grammar might not be too good. I tried to throw in some vocab I rarely use and I'm not sure if I phrased everything just right!

* * *

Christine had been scared beyond belief, that night, underground, with those two completely opposite men. She had been terrified. And so she'd left.

"Christine, my God," Raoul said, as they settled into a carriage. His pants were still wet from the murky lake water beneath the Opera House.

"Please, Raoul." Christine said shakily. "Don't."

She wasn't ready to talk about it.

Nor did she believe she'd ever be.

So they rode on in silence.

Suddenly, Raoul spoke. "The ring?" He asked quietly.

Christine looked to this man, her still-secret fiancé. Love swelled in her heart.

But it was not solely reserved for him.

No. And it would never be. She would never be able to look at Raoul, whom she loved so deeply, and feel pure love rise within her. The time for that was gone, long past. It had been for a while. But she was just beginning to realize it.

And to whom did she owe this?

The other man. The one she'd just left behind…for good.

Or so it seemed.

* * *

"Darling…" Raoul started awkwardly, as they sat at the dinner table, 3 days later.

It felt like 3 years.

Already, Christine was filled with more loneliness than she ever could've imagined. And how could this be? She was with _him. _This was her happy ending.

But somehow, she felt…incomplete. Vacant. Absent. Like she was watching her empty body on Earth, hovering above, as a soul.

Raoul's family had visited the day before. They had all been excited at the prospect of an upcoming wedding. Christine could not get it off her mind as well—for all the wrong reasons.

"Raoul," She said softly, looking up from her plate. "I need to speak to you. About something."

"Yes, of course, my love," He said, seemingly taken aback. "What is it?"

Christine was horrified to feel tears coming to her eyes. She couldn't believe she was doing this.

"Oh, Raoul, I love you so much," She breathed, and he rushed to her side, taking her into his arms.

"I know that, my dear," He cooed. "I know that. But whatever is the matter?"

"I love you, Raoul. I love you. I love you so much…"

"Christine, you're frightening me," Raoul's brow furrowed.

"I can't stay." She gasped.

"What?" Raoul's arms went limp around her.

"I can't stay here. I can't stay with you."

"But…" A look of total heartbreak came over Raoul's face. "Christine, help me understand. Please." She couldn't take the despair in his eyes. _But it doesn't even begin to compare with the misery I've seen in other eyes. _She thought.

"Raoul, you must believe me. And please, oh, God, please forgive me," She sobbed.

Immediately, his arms tightened again, as he leaned forward so that he could rock her back and forth reassuringly.

"Explain, my love," He said gently.

"Nothing would give me greater joy than to marry you, and spend the rest of my life with you," She started, sniffling. "But I can't. I can't do it."

"Why ever not?" Raoul seemed confused, hurt. "Is it because of…? Oh, Christine, my sweet…"

"It's not you, it's not what happened…it's none of that…I just…I must leave. I need to go away. I need to get a fresh start. And I can't take you with me." Christine began to sob once more, her body racking with the intensity of it, as tears spilled down her cheeks, creating puddles on the tile floor.

"But, Christine, I love you. I swear, no one will ever love you as I do," Raoul said, begging.

"I know that. I _know _that, Raoul. And I believe you. But I…I need to do this."

Raoul sat back, balancing on his heels, although he looked as if he'd faint any moment.

"Whatever you must do, do it." He sighed sadly. "I truly do love you, with all of my heart, my dear, and, if you feel you need this…I will let you. I have no other choice."

"Thank you." Christine managed a broken smile through her tears. He was always so accepting, so understanding.

A tear softly ran down Raoul's cheek. "When must you go?" She could see in his eyes he was not prepared to loose her. Her heart slowly cracked, watching his crestfallen face morph into an expression of pure despair.

"As quickly as possible." Christine said, feeling it the right answer, the right thing to say.

"Then I will help you." Raoul got up, offering a hand to lift her to her feet. Such a gentlemen. Such a perfect prince…

And so, Raoul helped Christine pack her few things—most of which he'd bought her. He gave her a suitcase for her belongings, and led her outside, towards his own personal carriage, which would deliver her to the boarding docks.

"I do not fully understand your decision," Raoul said, hastily. "But I will support it, because I support you, and everything you do. Just know, Christine, that, however far apart we are, I will always love you. And I hope you'll feel my love, even on the other side of the world, despite the oceans you must cross to separate us. And I shall never forget you, or the gifts your love brought me. I will think of you always."

Christine nodded, teary-eyed once more, and embraced her love--her once-fiancé. "I love you, too, Raoul, and I will miss you more than words can express." She said, her voice quivering.

"Take this." Raoul handed her a purse, heavily weighted with money. "I couldn't stand to know you might be uncared for, even for one moment." He smiled dismally.

"Goodbye, my love, my dear, my sweet," Raoul kissed her hand as Christine stepped into the carriage. "Have a safe trip. And enjoy your new life; your new start. Make the most of it."

Christine nodded once more, climbing fully into the carriage and shutting the door behind her, tears waiting inside of her eyes, ready to spring out at a moment's notice. But she would not allow that, not now, not ever.



* * *

Christine felt the carriage rock as the horses galloped away from Raoul's large home. She was leaving him behind. Her heart was completely numb. She couldn't feel a thing anymore. She doubted she ever would. But she would try her best to make him proud. She would aim for a great life. She would continue to sing, even once she'd arrived at her far-off destination.

She avoided looking anywhere but outside the window. Looking at the interior of the carriage just reminded her how much she was giving up.

As they passed the Opera House, Christine's armor cracked. She was no longer numb. Staring at that large, gorgeous building, pain flooded her heart and mind; she could think of nothing but that place, all that had happened there. She couldn't help it. She broke out into the sobs she'd been holding in so well before, just glimpsing that life-changing landmark. Masks floated into her mind's eye. Her whole memory rushed back, every single memory of the Opera House invading at once, leaving her weak and almost lifeless. She saw his face. _His. _She saw _him. _She heard his voice. She heard his organ, playing powerfully and beautifully, echoing through the underground caverns. She saw his underground chambers—so beautiful, but to him, nothing more than a prison. She listened to his song. She felt his lips upon hers, she could've sworn she felt the warmth of his hands on her body, moving down her neck, her hips.

Sucking in breath, she tried to forget. She tried to do as he'd said and forget it all. But it was useless, impossible. To think that she could ever _begin _to repress those memories was a preposterous request_--demand._ What had happened there, to her, to him, was something no one else could possibly understand. Every single breath she took in that building was monumental. Every song she sang there frightfully risky, and so incredibly...ambiguous. No one would ever understand. No one could ever grasp the complete & total clarity she'd had inside that Opera House. No one would ever be able to _begin _to imagine how she'd felt.

Christine saw images flash in her mind. Roses, black ribbon, candles, veils…even her fantasies could not be kept at bay. Things that had never happened, things she had _imagined _and felt bad about later, were all rushing back. The thought of him caused her to reach out, touching the nothingness in the carriage she so desperately wished could morph into who she longed for. The only one she longed for. Raoul--she'd had him. And in a way, she'd had Him, too, but his untouchable-type persona provided a rush of mystery and forbidden passion no one could resist, not even her, when she was more determined than ever before.

Oh, how she'd loved Raoul. She had _loved him. _But Erik…Erik…his name sent shivers down her spine. Every glance at a mirror, every glimpse of her reflection…she was helpless when the thought of him arose. Her angel. Her Angel. Her Angel of Music…her dark side. Her deepest wish that she hated, and only in her dreams could ignore. No; not even then. He came into every aspect of her life. Even in sleep she was not free of him. She would never be rid of him, his memory, and the remembrance of all that defined her time with him: how he'd tutored her, how he'd guarded her, but, more than that, his touch. The way he made her feel. The way tortured her so incredibly gently with illicit pleasure.

How she'd known. She'd known she shouldn't have loved him. She'd known she shouldn't have given into him, his powers. But that was just it; he had _powers. _Powers over her. And though she wished she could be in control, oh, God, it felt so good _not to be. _It was such a relief to just let go in his presence, when time with him meant time she could savor down to the last second. She knew she should be uncomfortable around him. But, to her astonishment, she wasn't. They just…fit. She had no idea what it was. Perhaps they were kindred spirits. Whatever it was, he had an ability to get inside her head; he had the power to evoke desire from her instantaneously. And, secretly, though Raoul had never fully known, she loved that. She loved not having to think.

She had just understood Erik, her Angel, the Phantom of the Opera. He had understood her, though, to some, they couldn't seem more different. But to her, they could just barely be more alike. Their souls were entwined. Their paths were destined to collide.

Christine always contradicted herself when thinking about him. They were alike--no, they were opposites. He was evil--no, he was just scarred. This _power_...over her thoughts, her opinions of people...she had been born knowing to avoid it. And yet, she felt so attracted to it she could barely refrain from him; could barely maintain the necessary distance between the two of them.

She was always forced to forgive him. He was the one person she couldn't stay mad at, though he certainly had the most reason to arouse such anger. After all, he was everything she had been raised hating; despising, even. A murderer. Someone who hid from the world. He was, in the biggest ways, her opposite. Where she wouldn't dare harm someone else—it was just something she had never been able to bring himself to do—he killed without a second thought. Where she craved sunlight like blood in her veins, he lived his life underground, in the shadows. But she knew this did not make him content with the life he led.

And, despite the fact she wished she _didn't, _she saw past all of this. She saw past his horrifying disfigurement, she saw past his lurking ways, she saw past his determination to despise the world. She saw the man behind the mask. Just as he'd asked her to do. He was not a monster; he was a beautiful soul, trapped in a disfigured and unfitting body.

That was the most important thing to her. There _was _someone behind that mask. A **man. **With thoughts, feelings, passions. He was a genius. He may have been vicious, at times. But he knew how to love as no one else she'd ever known knew how. He saw every bit of beauty in her. Why he may have grown strong hatred for most people, he saw her as the person every girl wished to be. He saw her as a goddess. He saw her the way a woman could never see herself: perfect.

She could not deny that she loved this. She had to admit it. She had to admit that being with him made her feel whole. Because he had done everything for her; she realized that now. He had given her the _only thing _he thought he had to offer: his music. And, even when she saw his other possibilities for things to give, and was more or less blind to his _mis_givings, she knew that music was the thing he had the most of—the most of to sacrifice, to present with…a flourish, so to speak.

Yes, it was true. She loved him. She loved him with all she had left of her, now that she'd lost so much else. She'd met him when she was an innocent, unknowing of the world's cruelties, believing that even the tragic death of her own father had been fate, and controlled by heaven. And he was the antithesis of all that she was made up of, back then. He had seen nothing from humanity except for a lack of compassion, had no feelings directed towards him other than one of 'necessary destruction'. All he knew in this world, this life, _his _life, was just how cruel people could be.

She had longed for an Angel of Music. She had wanted to see what else the world could offer, besides the life she had known. And then he had appeared, all of the sudden, inside of her mirror; an answer to her prayers. And then she'd gotten to know him. And realized that he wasn't the picture of an Angel as others would imagine. But he was still an Angel to her. _Her _Angel. And

soon, that admiration, the fondness, that feeling of serendipity, washed away. And new emotions were left in its place, feelings she'd never known. She wanted something new and something **thrilling. **Yes, she had loved before. She had known Raoul in childhood, and loved him so dearly, even then. But this opened up doors, to passion, lust, drama. And, still, underneath all of that, there still lied the love everyone else longs to know. The acceptance, the indefinable..._love. _It was the completed version of all she'd had before, with anyone else whom she'd shared similar feels with. Just…indescribable.



* * *

Looking to the Opera House, all her senses became hyper alert. She could smell Raoul on that rooftop, in the snow. She could taste Raoul, on that rooftop, in that ballroom. Underneath that was the electric shock sent down her spine by Erik, the warm, cozy feeling she got when she herself touched Raoul; everything was coming back now. She was the opposite of safe. Her own emotions now had the capability to destroy her, from the inside out.

Christine let herself continue to mourn the voluntary loss of two men she'd loved beyond compare, and would love forever despite it all. She knew leaving wouldn't help. She knew she couldn't escape this sorrow that ravaged her body and soul. But she also knew that staying would be unbearable. She knew that every day she looked to that Opera House, she would not be able to forget. She knew that every time she looked at Raoul, who would've been her husband, she would've seen his terrorized face as Erik held him captive, and she would've heard the crack in Erik's voice as he let them go. _Together. _He allowed them to leave with each other. He was giving consent.

That was another thing that made Christine's body tense at the slightest mental, **internal,** mention—just a brief whisper inside her mind of those words her Phantom had spoken sent her into a flurry, unable to relax. He'd let them go. He'd _asked them _to go. He'd wanted her to marry Raoul. She'd wanted, herself, to marry Raoul. And she couldn't. So, not only was she betraying her own heart & future, but she was also ignoring her Angel's wishes, something she'd never intended to do, for it brought her too much pain and guilt. Unending suffering, that was her fate.

_Why _had she left the Phantom? Why had she abandoned her Erik? Right after promising him he wasn't alone, she left him just as he was before. **Alone. **And now she herself was alone as well. Neither of them was better off. Raoul was alone, too. All three parties involved in that devastating love triangle were now _worse _off—lonely and abandoned. She shivered at the thought of the three of them, living separate, yet equally torturous lives, a retched existence knowing nothing but suffering from this point on. (Well, hopefully they would move on...but Christine was not so sure. Even moving on physically did not mean moving on fully.)

Which did nothing but arouse _more _thoughts of her Angel. His life had been one tumultuous horror after another. At least she and her _Raoul_ had led good lives, up until this point. But Erik? He had known nothing in this world except hurt. And she was doing nothing to help that, nothing to take that away, nothing to eliminate his revulsion with humankind. She'd only fueled the already-livid fire; only added to the sting of being deserted which he'd had to subsist since the moment he took his first breath. Which he'd probably have to continue to experience until he drew his _last. _Oh, why did she have to depart from him when he needed her most? He hated himself, she knew that. And yet she did nothing to eradicate it! She could've taken away all of that. She could've abolished his self-loathing once and for all. But instead she'd chosen the easy way out, and she was in turmoil over that very fact. She'd just gone on to hurt _more _people even _more. _She was ruining everything! Oh, God, she was corrupting the very essence of life itself! Because _what _is the core of humanity's being? _Love. _And she was tarnishing just that—the purity of the heart and it's faith, it's ability to love and it's hunger for love in return.

At that very moment, Christine was filled with such a feeling self-detest that it knocked the breath right out of her. _Stop it. _She thought to herself. _Stop thinking of this right now. It will not, __CANNOT, reverse the mistakes of your past. There is no point. _But then again, there didn't seem to be much of a point to anything anymore.

**A/N: **If you just took the time to read all that, thank you so much! Any feedback is so greatly appreciated...seriously, I'll remember it forever! :)

Part 2 coming if I get enough readers.

And that one will focus on Erik. Plus, there's a REUNION! (upcoming. _If _I get readers ;)


	2. P2PursuitDesign,Opposite of Serendipity

**A/N: **So I was searching stuff about Phantom on imdb, and I found that there might be a sequel based on a book set in Manhattan. I sort of..._borrowed _this location, but I can assure you, this bears hardly any resemblance to that particular plot-line. I did use some of the ideas it used, but I had actually thought of them before I read about it. So you may see some similarities...but I doubt there'll be more than a few. :)

As always, enjoy, and PLEASE review...it'll be appreciated so much!

P.S.--Don't forget to read Part 1 first!! Seriously...you might be a bit confused if you don't.

* * *

Erik lay in the mud, staring up at the bridge above him. Slowly, the melted snow, turning into little water droplets, fell down, plopping onto his forehead.

For the past few days, he had simply laid there. Occasionally he groaned—his entire body felt bruised, as if he would never heal. He knew he must have at least one broken bone.

His escape from the Paris Opera House had been a hasty and hazardous one. All of the police in practically the entity of Paris had been following him as he raced through the secret passageways he'd discovered so long ago. He had barely felt conscious as he wound his way through the halls of his dungeon. He hadn't even felt conscious—it had been an out-of-body experience, and one he hadn't been eager to live in the first place. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that, despite everything, She would not want him to go to prison. _Real _prison. But could it be worse than where he was now? Under a damp, loud Paris bridge, unaccompanied once more.

Each breath he took was ragged, forced. He had no will to survive. And yet, he felt it was his…_duty, _after all it had taken to keep him alive up to this point. So he kept on. Even when it felt like giving up would be the easiest thing in the world to do…which is probably would be, now. He wouldn't have believed it possible a few short months ago, but life was worse now than ever. He was not only lonely (as he'd always been), but now, he was in an unfamiliar, too-bright place, not nearly as hidden as his underground quarters at the Opera. And he didn't even have his music.

Oh, his music.

How could he survive without it?

_How could he survive without **her**_?

It was a question that did not even deserve an answer. For there wasn't one. He simply _couldn't. _

* * *

Days later, the Phantom remained in his original position. He was too weak to move, even slightly. He couldn't exactly tell, but he was pretty sure he'd been here for a week, exactly. 7 days. 7 days of torture. Utter agony. His mind was tormenting him, trying to increase his anguish by bringing him back to thoughts of her, day and night. Which he barely managed to acknowledge in the first place. The changing of light to dark, night to day, brought him nothing. No comfort in the fact time was passing. No relief that one more day was coming to an end. Nothing. He was numb, and he had found, recently, that he preferred _numbness _to pain entirely.

Closing his eyes silently, he did all he had the strength to do: whisper her name.

"Christine." He said, his voice breaking, and the single, crucial word ending in a broken sob that had such force it racked his body tremendously. More movement then he'd had in a week.

As he continued to wallow in his despair, a voice broke through his haze of grief & regret.

"Get up." It said.

Madame Giry. He'd recognize the voice anywhere. The only one, in his younger years, who had ever spoken to him directly, or even _known _of his presence at all. The only person who had **never **believed him to be only a 'rumor,' or a 'ghost story.' The only one who had _always _recognized his existence.

Madame Giry, his original savior, who'd rescued him from that horrible circus, and given him the oh-so-precious gift of life, hiding, and, most of all, the opportunity to possess the only thing that mattered-- then. Music.

And now, not much had changed. One more thing had been added to his unbearably short list of essentials, but that was all. However, that could not be passed off as a 'minor change.' Oh, no. It was the most important and influencial thing that had ever happened to him. The most _crucial _addition to his pitiful, amazing-that-he'd-managed-subsitence life, that had changed him more than anything else ever had, or ever would.

Now, his life not only contained music; it also included Her. His Christine.

* * *

Oh, how he'd gotten caught up in this. In her. Her beauty, her talent. She was _grateful _to him. No one had ever shown him such sentiment. The sensation she awarded him was the most invaluable thing in the world to him: love.

He had never loved. He had never _been _loved. She showed him both. She showed him how--she showed him he could--and she showed him he was. To love, to love, to be lovable. He'd never known of such things before she'd appeared in the Opera Populaire. His outlook had been completely altered once she first set foot in that building. The first note she sang had been the most transforming thing that had occured to him, _ever._

He rolled over, the pain of shifting his body excruciating.

"Go on, get up, I said," Madame Giry insisted in her thick accent.

He stayed where he was.

"This is important, dammit!" She snapped. "And I assure you, it is of great value to your trodden little heart."

Ah, Madame Giry. No sympathy for him anymore. He'd been expecting that, yet, still, it startled him quite a bit. She had never been vicious--at least, not to him. But he had made the biggest possible mistake. And for once, she wasn't going to let this error slip; she'd had enough, and he understood that. He was at fault and he did not deserve, nor did he anticipate, any empathy, pity, or compassion. The supply of those emotions had ran out for her by now, as he'd always known it would eventually.

His bones cracking as he did so, Erik stood. His mask (the one he'd grabbed as an afterthought during his getaway) stuck to his face with the moisture of a weeks-worth of lying down in the same, outdoor place.

"As I said." Madame Giry continued, straightening her posture. "Something you'll be glad to know."

"Yes." The Phantom croaked. He waited patiently for Madame to continue.

"Christine has left Raoul." She announced.

* * *

Erik felt his breath leave him, as well as all his pain. Just in time for a new wave of agony to sweep in; washing away the old, but, at the same time, replacing it with nothing more than a fresh supply of said agony. One he wasn't used to. It was easier to deal with when he had become accustomed to it. But now, it was just a whole new startling set of stabbing, ripping, and tearing (not to mention _searing_) sensations that would take just as long to settle in and become part of the normal routine.

He had expected his Christine to be in Raoul's good hands; hands that loved her, appreciated her, and would protect her when he himself could not. He had given consent, approval; he has _wished _them to marry, even, so that she may continue on in this life, the only one she would ever have, and find as much happiness as she could. He had never liked Raoul. Raoul had tried to replace him; Raoul had tried to kill him; Raoul had stolen his dear, precious Angel away. But at least, in the way he'd chosen it to be, and had thought it would be, he knew that she would be with someone who loved her--even if they could never possibly manage to love her quite as much as he had.

She had been the most amazing person he'd ever known—the only _decent _person, but so much more than that, she went so far _beyond _that. Not only was she decent; she was heaven-sent. She made him forget, for a while, his past, and his scars, and how damaged he really was. He was not a murderer around her. He was not the devil's child. He was an _angel. _

He'd so greatly regretted showing her the dark_er_ side of him. He'd wanted her to believe he could be good. He'd wanted her to see that he wasn't all bad. But he had to go and prove all her hopes and dreams wrong, had to expose himself as he really was: evil. He hated himself, more than anything, for that, for letting his past get the best of him, and dashing down her image of him as one of her life story's protagonists. He _hated _that he had gone and ruined all that they'd had, all that they **could've **had. His whole being seeped regret at this thought—that he'd be responsible for ruining "what might've been." That _he _was the one who had stopped it from going father and getting better. He lamented the fact that he'd ever snapped at her; that he'd ever been violent towards her; that he'd ever forced her into anything. God, he hadn't wanted it to be that way. He just wanted her to _choose him._ 

He just wanted her to see past who he appeared to be, and, probably, really was, even deep down. But most of all, he wanted her to see that there was MORE to him than wickedness; immorality; impiety, and malice. She brought out his softer side and he had so deeply wished it could stay out. But, like all positive, genuinely _good _things in his distressed and angst-filled life, it had to recede—disappear—_fade, _and much too quickly. God forbid he could turn things around. God forbid it would last just a little longer, so he could heal, become a better person. He wanted that. He truly did. But now he began to realize it was not possible. It was impractical to believe he could change. Even around her, his redeemer, his dark self tore out from its hiding place. He'd thrown her to the ground. He'd dragged her to his dungeon. He'd tried to kill her fiancée. He'd made her bare witness to the side of him that would, inevitably, send him to hell, although he'd so yearned to be good for once. He'd craved the ability to avoid hurting her. He'd never wanted that, he **swore! **But he could not get around it. It was too much a part of him. He was _that _person, and that person was inescapable. His thoughts were running away with him now. He needed to get to the point, inside his dim thoughts, and the point was this: he didn't want to be that way. He had wanted to change for _her. _But he couldn't. And that killed him.

He had only gotten carried away. He'd gotten too caught up in the fact that that _should've been him. _He should've been in Raoul's position, the other party in the secret engagement, the one she turned to when she was worried or afraid. But he'd instilled that fear. He'd caused that wory, that panic. So exactly what he'd wanted was exactly what could never be.

"But some _worse _news, then," Madame cleared her throat, changing her attitude in response to Erik's surprising reaction to the first bit of startling information. "She has left the country."

"What?" The Phantom's heart seized in his chest. It was astounding he should still have a heart, after it had been frozen over long ago, melted in front of her, and then been stolen by her leaving. His heart had been battered and stomped on so many times he could not help doubting it's presence in general. But he obviously still contained one. It was just 'out of order.' In reply to her absence, he was caused to have an absence of love in himself.

"She's gone, Erik." Giry sighed. "I'm sorry."

The Phantom paused, gathering his racing thoughts.

"Where?" He gasped, not having taken in a breath. "Where is she?" _Where is my love?_

"She's going to where she hopes she may join another Opera House, in America. New York. Manhattan, to be exact." Madame Giry cleared her throat once more. "I thought you should know."

The Phantom's eyes softened in gratitude towards Madame Giry's consideration for _him, _a…murderer, a formerly-ungrateful, and inhospitable, 'emotionally absent' and unreceptive shell of a man. She had saved him from that horrible circus, where he was beaten and nearly killed over and over, just to provide amusement to others. And now she was giving him back the only thing that had ever mattered more than his music. She was giving him back his life source, his meaning, the foundation for anything that was left in his miserable existence.

_Christine._

* * *

Christine held her breath as she boarded the ship. Raoul had gotten her onto the best, of course. He had high standards, for the both of them.

_But there's no "us" anymore. _She remembered. _Oh. _This thought scared her more than she thought it would—she'd imagined that perhaps she'd have gotten used to it. But obviously…not so much.

* * *

The whole trip over to America, she was queasy. She wasn't exactly seasick. It was just how forceful the awareness was that she was actually _leaving. _That comprehension made her shiver.

But, after such a long time on the water, she was actually quite glad—maybe even _gleeful_—to see land, even if it was completely new and unfamiliar and she did not know _anyone _here.

Luckily, a driver from another Opera House was there to pick her up. The one she'd written to about auditioning to join. They already seemed impressed with her history in Paris, and they even said the audition was just a "formality" to "ensure" her talent. In case anyone there had doubts. Which she assumed they must. _I mean, they're humans. _She thought, reasoning with herself. _They're bound to take precautions._

The driver took her, by carriage, towards the Opera. Christine had butterflies. She was giddy with excitement. She couldn't wait. She felt _animated. _For the first time in…ages. Ages and ages. It was almost as if she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this electrified, this alive.

But that was a lie. She knew that, and she couldn't live with the rebuttal her mind automatically realized and seized. She did know the last time she'd felt like this.

It had been the last time she had seen Him.

* * *

Meanwhile, Erik was once again below decks. This time, on a ship. Quite a large one, too. But he didn't mind the filthy smells or the uncomfortable lodgings. His mind was alight with thoughts of her, and where he was going, and _finding _her.

He used his time traveling across the Atlantic to formulate a plan, as to what he should actually do when he arrived in Manhattan. Wistfully, the Phantom sighed, the image of her face drifting to his mind, as it constantly did. He wouldn't push it from his mind if he could.

* * *

Christine stood on the stage—much smaller than the one in Paris—and, ignoring the pangs in her heart, sang with all her might. She tried not to think about what had happened the last time she was in an Opera. The last time she was on an Opera stage. The last song she'd sang…

She focused solely on the present. On the _future. _She swore to herself that she would let the past remain in the past, and she would get on with her life.

Nadia, the star of this Opera House—the Kendall Opera House--listened on in horror as Christine performed. The name of the House was not so glamorous (after all, it was named after the founder, who knew _nothing _whatsoever of music) but the performances **were. **Nadia had worked with the director, Liev, when they were both in Russia, doing opera and ballet there. Nadia performed and Liev coached her. She was now one of the best. Liev was the best tutor there was--Nadia was sure of it.

But Nadia was furious when she heard this new girl, Christine, get up and sing. How _dare _she come and try to take over? Well, never mind that. She had no doubt Christine could not compare to her own talent, if they were pitted against one another; when going head-to-head, Nadia _always _came out on top.

Despite that, Nadia went up to Christine as soon as she had finished her song.

Christine could not believe it. As she saw Nadia saunter up, she thought to herself, _Amazing. The opposite side of the globe, and things are exactly the same. _She could tell by Nadia's walk she would be just a big a diva as Carlotta, the former opera star back in Paris whose "throne" she had threatened with her young, "fresh talent," as people had put it. She just thought Carlotta did not want to share any of her spotlight, and _that _was why she was so uncomfortable around Christine. She assumed as much from Nadia.

"Who did you train vith?" Nadia asked, her Russian accent watered-down by years of singing English music.

Christine remained silent, unmoving.

"Vell?" Nadia got agitated, and her accent thickened.

Nadia placed her hands on her hips. "So it's going to be vat way." She stuck her chin up and sucked in her cheeks. "Vell. I vas just going to ask who you trained vith. In _Paris._" She said snidely, pronunciating it "pear-eez."

Christine's heart froze. It seized in her chest, posotively refusing to beat again.

"Answer me!" Nadia snapped, forgoing the attempt to stay composed and half-heartedly polite. "Who vas your tutor?"

Christine felt her eyes gloss with tears, but she sent them away as quickly as they had came.

"You wouldn't know him." Christine said softly. This seemed to satisfy Nadia's thirst for information. If he wasn't known by her, he wasn't famous. If he wasn't _famous, _he was not as good as Liev. She walked away, happy with her interrogating skills.

Christine took a deep, shuddering breath, and walked on, almost stumbling, but catching herself just in time.

"Christine, Christine!" Odessa, the manager, came over, beaming. "What a talent you are." She smiled brightly, and Christine smiled back as best she could. "Now. When can you begin?"

Now Christine _truly _smiled. "As soon as you need!" She said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

"Well, then!" Odessa continued to grin. "You'll be beginning rehearsals tonight." Christine nodded. Odessa clapped her hands, looking behind Christine, into the dark corners of the stage, and called, "Amon!" A pale little boy rushed up. "Show our newest star around, please, would you, dear." Odessa stated, not really a question, but rather a command. The boy nodded shyly. "Well, then." She smiled once more. "I'll leave you to it." And just like that, Odessa scurried off, grabbing a dancer by the arm as she near fell.

"Hello, miss," Amon said gently. "This way." And he walked off briskly, in the direction of a large archway. Christine struggled to follow him through the familiar bustling crowds of a cast and crew preparing for practice.

The boy could only be 10 years old. His fragile frame made him appear awkward and gawky.

His bones stuck out, showing through his skin, and Christine felt horrid looking at him.

He reminded her of another misfit, who also tended to lurk in the shadows.

"Amon," Christine began hesitantly. The boy abruptly turned back, looking frightened. Christine tried to be even softer. "What's your…place here?" She asked.

"I'm the errand boy." He said, his voice barely audible.

Christine nodded curtly, the only response she could think of, and followed him as he began to walk again, through the winding, bright-lit halls.

"This is the back entrance to the stage." He pointed to a large curtain, then switched directions. "This is the door to the outdoor deck." The door was large, wooden, and has music notes carved into it. It was gorgeous.

As they continued on, Christine ran her fingers over the shallow grooves in the dark cherry.

"This is the director's room," Amon announced, motioning to a door. "And this is Odessa's." He pointed to the door directly across from, but not facing, Liev's.

He led her down a bit more. "This is Nadia's quarters," He said, gesturing to a door with a large white star drawn on it. "She's the lead singer." Christine smiled and nodded down at the boy, and he flushed, turning away.

"This is for the dancers," He pointed again, and then turned to face a smaller door. "And this will be yours, until you get more…settled." He opened up this door, and showed her inside. She saw the driver of the carriage had already put her bags down on the floor. There was a large mirror and a desk-type piece of furniture, as well as a brass-framed bed and a large window looking out on Manhattan's bustling streets.

"Quite the view." Amon commented, and then briskly left in that way Christine was beginning to think just might be his signature.

* * *

Erik stood in the street, gazing up at the broken-down building.

"Perfect." He said under his breath.

The man he'd hired stood beside him. "This suits you, sir?" He asked nervously, and Erik nodded. "Okay…" The man glanced around. "I'll contact whoever owns it and tell them your offer."

"Thank you," Erik said with forced politeness, handing the dirty man some money for his work.

"No, no, thank _you, _sir," The man said cheerfully, and ran off towards the building.

_He's much too merry for my taste. _Erik thought to himself silently.

But that was not what he was here for. And nothing would distract him from his _true _intentions. Absolutely nothing.

**A/N: **One more chapter closer to a REUNION! I swear, it's coming up, like, in part 3. PROMISE. I just need a tad more feedback to know what I can do better...and I have to do a LOT more editing...but...soon. I swear.


	3. P3, Pretense

**A/N: **Please read part 1 & part 2 first (or else you'll be TOTALLY lost, I guarantee it)! So, here it is, part 3 of my Phantom of the Opera continuance…alternate ending, thing, sequel, whatever…

Christine rehearsed like mad. Nadia did not make it any easier, and she had not seen Amon anywhere in days. That child loved to disappear.

Odessa was kind enough, Liev acted as if he was only tolerating her, and Sir Kendall, the British owner of the Opera House, seemed delighted just to see a new face.

Christine had heard from Odessa that Amon had been homeless, before Kendall found him and asked him to come be, basically, a servant here. He had been kicked out of his parent's home because he "was not fond of females." This was something new to Christine. She had never met anyone…like…well, like _that. _Like him. The poor boy. Ostracized and turned out on his own by his own parents who could not accept him for who he was. Christine pitied him, but it pained her to think of him as rejected by those who should have loved him; sadly, not for the boys' sake, but because it so reminded her of someone else.

The opera they were rehearsing for was an old and famous one. Christine played a nurse, who had several solos. Christine was happy. She was not ecstatic, she could not say she was fully 'enjoying herself,' but she was happier than she'd been in a long, long time.

One night, as she was preparing for bed, Christine was gazing out of her window as she was getting into the habit of doing quite often. It was something she could honestly say she _did _enjoy—looking at her new surroundings, trying to make herself familiar with an alien place. She sighed, looking down at the empty streets, lit up by the street lamps that no one had yet put out. Christine gathered up her skirts and started getting into bed, glancing to the outside world once more, when something caught her eye. A flash of white—a face.

She held her breath. _Could it be? _No, no, she was hallucinating.

A man. In a mask. A _man _in a _mask _was standing in the lightly falling snow, staring at the building. Not at her. Not at anything, anyone. Just staring, and looking completely broken.

"It's not him," Christine assured herself out loud. "He's in Paris. You're seeing things."

And sure enough, as soon as she looked out to the streets once more, he was gone.

Erik began renovations immediately after buying the dilapidated and run-down former House of Music. He would be the Phantom of the Opera once more. But this time, he would be fully in control. No one could keep him from his purpose here.

Opening night of the Opera Christine was starring in, Erik got himself a seat in the very back row. He snuck in, of course—he could not be seen paying. He might've hidden somewhere secret, in fact, he knew he would've, but he did not know his way around here, and he doubted there were any secret places _here. _It was not exactly the most original of buildings.

His entire face was hidden now, in a full mask. He was sure papers would be speaking about the mysterious unknown man who had wrecked the famous chandelier in the Opera Populaire; he knew people were talking about him, he knew he was already becoming a legend. This might've pleased him, once. Being known to exist by so many, being _feared _by so many. But now, he hardly gave it a second thought.

He had no desire to watch this drama; he did not care about the plot or the characters, even as a writer himself. He left after her first solo.

He only wanted to hear her voice. To be sure she was alright. He only wanted to be reminded of her; to be assured that she was real. She was so perfect, to him, at least, that it seemed quite plausible to have dreamed her. And after so long being without her, he was beginning to doubt his sanity, and wondering if she was just a cruel trick his mind was playing on him, a joke to humor his deepest wishes. But seeing her, _hearing _her, he knew—she was entirely real, and he had truly found her.

Almost instantaneously after that first performance in New York, Christine was a star. And the subject of chatter all around the city.

Christine knew people just needed something new & fresh to gabber about, but it was slightly gratifying all the same. People were recognizing her as a talent! People here did not know her past; people here did not judge her for her time as a chorus girl; people _here _would not think of her as the girl who had been last scene on a stage falling into a pit of fire with someone seen as a criminal by the general public.

"It's amazing!" One person said. "She's so…strong. So unaffected, even around that horrible Nadia."

Another person commented, "It's sort of eerie. She doesn't seem to have much emotion, especially in her eyes. She never seems to _relax!_"

But they all agreed on one thing. "That **voice! **I swear to you, it's heaven-sent."

To them, she seemed like an angel. Her sudden appearance, out of nowhere, and then that astounding, celestial beauty and stunning voice.

No one had seen her in Paris. No one knew of her past. All they knew about her was that she was a beautiful, talented young girl, who seemed to be as hard as a brick. Anyone who called her _soft _was sorely mistaken, at least, according to anyone who had watched her here.

But they loved her. There was no doubt about that. It didn't matter that her eyes were vacant; her smile was clearly fake. She was splendid and incredibly…_sensational. _So what if she was never wistful, or open? It was clear to them that she was simply _never vulnerable. _And as long as her voice stayed as stunning and striking as it was now, well…that was good enough for the customers of the Opera. After all, they were not interested in any possibly _boring _personal problems. They were perfectly happy to just listen & watch and assume all was well, and leave the rest up to imagination.

Within weeks, the House Erik had bought and fixed up was changed from 'out of order' to a sparkling, wondrous and appealing Opera. The Phantom's plan was in motion. The man he had originally hired now helped him set up interviews with directors and managers and possible cast members. It was only to be the best of everything: except singers. That he would leave open. The script was already set.

After only several _more _weeks, Erik's Opera—Opera Ambrose—was ready to run.

He had written his newest Opera. The dancers were trained; the director and manager were skilled with their work; only one element was missing. The female star.

A man had been cast, Sorrin, the Scandinavian, to play the lead male part. But the woman, to play his opposite, was left uncast.

The director and manager, as well as several other people from Opera Ambrose, began to write to Christine. She was now insanely famous, and all-the-rage. She had sung at several other Operas besides Kendall's, but still called Kendall's her home. But her luck was running out there. Nadia was becoming increasingly vicious and Christine's patience was wearing out. Her roles at Kendall's were getting thinner and duller, and, frankly, they were boring her. In total, now, it had been more than a year since she had come to New York. She was not yet entirely comfortable, and already becoming fed up with her life here.

But, as soon as Christine read the summary of Opera Ambrose's opening night's performance, she was thrilled. Something new, unlike her typical, fading characters elsewhere.

The premise was that of two dying, complicated lovers, separated, and the near-finale scene, which also introduced the male lover for the first time, was set in heaven. Before that, the woman had just sung of him. There had only been memories; flashbacks, where younger versions of the two characters acted behind a screen to make the illusion of a dream.

This role as actually something Christine looked forward to. For the first time since she had moved here, she was _excited _about something. She was now full of joy, though still somewhat stoic.

So she joined Opera Ambrose at once, never inquiring after the author of the opera. The director, Gregorio, also posed to be the owner. Christine had no reason to doubt it.

She practiced and practiced. She was preparing more than she'd ever prepared, getting everything down perfectly. She knew her songs. She knew her lines. She knew her dance moves. She knew the drill. She had fallen in love with this drama.

In rehearsals, they continued to pound every bit and detail into her brain. She memorized Odessa's reminders. Her coaching. Odessa had also come, occasionally, to help the first-timer who occupied Odessa's title at the Ambrose. She served as a tutor for the newcomer."Alright, heaven scene, everyone," Odessa would shout. "Now, remember, Christine. Just as the curtain draws, keep your face just one inch from his. Lead the audience to believe that you kissed. Keep the two of you on their minds—leave them wondering and wishing they had seen more." Christine had had to do this before. She was happy—she'd never kissed anyone onstage before, and she didn't particularly want to now.

But on opening night, a disaster occurred. Sorrin had broken his knee. He could not move, much less walk—he could not _perform. _

"Do not worry, my dear," Gregorio patted Christine on the shoulder as she felt nauseous. "His understudy knows the part well."

"Where is he?" She asked anxiously.

"He's here. Relax, darling." Gregorio cooed. Christine nodded, reassured.

"May I meet him?" She asked.

"There's no need, Christine," Gregorio continued. "He's ready, you're ready. Plus, there isn't enough time. Sorrin didn't exactly leave us leisure time, this was not planned, it's almost to curtain! You'll play the parts fabulously. No worries. He enters at the heaven scene, just as Sorrin always did."

Christine smiled tiredly, and went out onto the stage, staring at the dark purple curtains as they lifted up to reveal the opening act.

And it did work. It worked splendidly. The entire crowd was ecstatic. And many swore, and promised, to come back the next night. The understudy had indeed done well—he had been a bit jittery and much less confident in the role, but he had pulled it off. They had succeeded.

But then yet _another _disaster. The understudy got food poisoning the next night—now, both Sorrin _and _the backup could not act.

Gregorio once more assured her there was a plan. Plan C. Apparently, in Manhattan, even understudies had understudies. _Preparing for the worst, eh? _Christine thought.

"Don't fret, love," Gregorio patted her on the head. "Just do as you did last night. All will go according to plan."

Watching from the wings on opening night, Erik's heart was in palpitations. His head felt as if it would explode.

God, all the things he needed to say to her.

Most of all, _Thank you._

She had given him a life he'd never known, full of love and companionship. She might not have intended to change him so much, she might not have clear-headedly made the decision to help, but the important thing was that she had. She had given him so much.

Even if it was short-lived. Even if it didn't last very long.

She had personally removed him from his hell. She had taken away those feelings of rejection and hate, with just one kiss. He hungered for her. He needed to taste her one more time.

He needed to smell her. He needed to _feel _her. He needed _her. _

It would be an overstatement to say all of his fury and rage that had accumulated over his lifespan had dissolved when her lips touched his. It was an impossibility to forget all of that.

But that was why he loved her most. She made him feel as if he could.

As if it wasn't so impossible after all. As if nothing was.

Christine's times with Raoul had felt so brilliantly real. They'd felt like a summer breeze, like the sun on her face.

Her times with the Phantom had been like a marvelously intense dream—like a rainstorm, when the world echoed all around her from the force of the booming thunder. And, at the time, she'd been ashamed—because it was like a dream from which she never wanted to wake up. She knew she _should _want to wake up, she knew it was partially a nightmare, and nightmares are not meant to be enjoyed—it would be masochistic to do so and therefore mostly seen as wrong. Yet a deeper, darker part of her reveled in these dreams which were seemingly nightmares; most would consider them so, but she did not, _could _not. It was more like…something she knew she couldn't have and, even more, knew she shouldn't even _want, _yet she did. So much. In a way, he was the forbidden fruit, the treasure just beyond reach—and she'd reached for him, she'd plucked him from that tree and tasted that evil and found herself enjoying it. This is what shamed her. That she had _liked _that which she should've despised; that she liked _him._

She had loved him with parts of her mind, body, & soul she'd never known she'd had.

Yes, her heart belonged to Raoul. Simply put.

But…something _else _belonged to her Erik. It was more than that. As if every step she took, every note she sang, she _owed to him. _She owed everything to him. Not only her music or her life as it was now, but her life itself. She knew it was absurd. Yet she couldn't seem to shake the notion that he'd made her what she was, in every sense, way, shape, and form. Not only _music. _No. Everything. It was all because of him.

She _loved _Raoul, more than almost anything, it seemed.

But, for some reason, it seemed unfitting to have Raoul cast in the role as her love. Though she loved him, no matter what, undoubtedly, he had failed her in one way and one way only. So it was _especially _rubbish to think of him as miscast, seeing as the Phantom had failed her so very often, but…she could not deny that Raoul had failed to diminish the doubt life had instilled in her. She had _doubts _around Raoul, yet, never around Erik. This might've been a bad thing to some, the way he made her feel so at ease, thus making her so easy to be taken advantage of, but she could just not see it that way. Yet she did not lie to herself. She knew all of the ways the Phantom had made her someone different, someone she did not recognize for the longest time as herself, and still wondered at the presence of.

Christine had been an innocent. Until she'd met the Phantom. She'd thought it was a dreadful thing, her whole being having been corrupted by one man's presence. But now, she realized it wasn't that that made her afraid of him. She wasn't scared to stay by his side because he was a murderer, or a man possessed by obsession, or because he was so terribly violent. She knew, now, that it was because he brought out a side of her she wished she didn't have. Still, she could not refuse the face it was there—it's presence was undeniable, no matter how much she hated that very fact. And the reason she was _really _frightened was because that made the possibility arise that that side of her, that _dark _side, would take over _all_ of her. That loving him would become the only thing she did, or was capable of. That everything else would disappear, fade into background scenery, and she'd forget the rest of the world even existed at all.

She was afraid she'd come to love him even more than she already did—though that seemed unfeasible. In essence…well…

She was afraid she would love him _too much. _For her own good, or anyone else's.

That was why she had been hesitant.

But her desire was uncontrollable.

He had been right about her.

Passion, lust, fixation…it took over her.

She hated the fact that she would never be able to escape him, or his memory.

He would always be there—she would never be free.

His presence was so intoxicating…she couldn't help developing such a yearning for him.

She had been so moved by his words. She had forgiven him for everything just because of his sorrow. But she knew. She knew he regretted hurting her, if only briefly, and only in the heat of the moment. She had heard him, known his meaning, when he'd sang to her, "Now you cannot ever be free." He had been mad because she had ruined her own life. He had been angry not at her, but at her stupidity—he knew exactly what would happen to her, he had predicted these very moments where she was overtaken by him and he had known she would love him too much for her own sake. She had reached the point of no return. By taking off his mask that night, she had sealed her own irreversible fate, full of thoughts of him and longing _for _him, and the inability to erase him from her mind, memory…heart. She had understood his need for beauty, and she'd understood she'd satisfied that hunger. She'd understood she had provided him that bit of heaven, which he knew was unattainable otherwise.

Oh, God, he'd been so right.

Her fear had turned to love; she'd found the man behind the monster…and no matter how she tried for however long, she would **never** be free.

He truly was a Phantom. For, now, he haunted her, always.

Every time she looked in the mirror, he was there. And she so wished he would come and take her away, back to his home again…what was a dungeon, a prison cell to him, was her idea of a secret, hidden, and masked bit of heaven.

And, still, despite the distance, he still came to her. She dreamt of him, of his voice. His voice continued to call to her. He was luring her to him. And it was literally all she could do to just **barely** resist.

Erik had sung of his increasing power over his gorgeous pupil. And he'd seen in her eyes he'd been right. He took comfort knowing his presence was felt; he had found a home, inside her mind.

Was she his mask?

There was no doubt that their spirits and voices were so deeply connected that no one could ever tear them apart. He longed to have his thoughts confirmed; to know he'd succeeded; to know that whenever she sang, she would feel him. He'd known the day would come when 

they would be separated. And he had wanted her to be able to bask in the awareness of his existence. He never wanted her to have to feel his absence. He had known it was both of their faults that they felt this way, and, now that they did, and that could not be changed, he wanted to save her from what pain he could—he wanted to do all that was possible for himself to do to protect her.

He had offered up his music, as she had offered up her own. His music was the only love he could offer. She had taken it. And oh, he knew what that meant…oh, how he had known…

She'd** returned** the music to him. She had acknowledged, not ignored, his song, and sung it back. She'd reciprocated his feelings, his sentiments.

Neither of them could ever come back from that.

She imagined his face and sang his words to her over and over to herself.

Was it because of him that, now, she cherished the world of night? That she could never defend herself when thinking of him?

That was why she could not think of him at all when she was on stage, or around anyone else, for that matter. Because, if she did, she would become feeble and frail. She hated appearing pathetic, susceptible to the outside world. But he caused her to abandon any attempts to appear strong or guarded. She was quivering as she recalled how easily she'd surrendered. But it had been what she was required to do. Not only by him, but by herself, her own mind. She would not let herself refuse, she would not take no for an answer—she wanted to give herself up to him. She could not evade it, nor did she have any desire to. Around him, she felt as if…as if succumbing to him was her destiny. Her fate. Her doom.

But _could _it be doom? Even if she ached for that 'doom' to approach?

He'd shown her that life she'd shunned because she thought it was what she was supposed to do.

And it panicked her to feel she had made a mistake by doing that. To feel as if _that _life, the life of what she'd always called nightmares, was what she truly sought after; longed for. It was like…like she'd mislabeled it. Misinterpreted it.

So, when she'd felt her mind submitting to him, she'd dreaded the complete overtaking of her senses—at least, she told herself she should dread it—and she'd just narrowly escaped it. Barely.

But what _truly _made her quake until her entire body was shaking was that she'd felt that life, that dark, dismal life, pass—she'd felt it brush her shoulder.

And she'd liked it.

**A/N: **Hope you liked part 3! Keep reading…part 4 is coming!! And please, please, PLEASE give feedback. It's so greatly appreciated! I swear, the reunion is so close you should be TASTING it by now!! And even if I just get ONE review on this...I'll post part 4 :) So please, please review!! And thank you so much to the people who did!


	4. Pt 4, At Last?

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A/N

: Just FYI you'll definitely need to read parts 1, 2, & 3 first to understand this…trust me! Please give feedback. I love it. Enjoy…part 4 in my Phantom of the Opera continuance! (and also check out my Erik/Christine 'tribute' video on YouTube!! URL on my profile page.)

* * *

She hadn't minded being possessed by him, by someone, by a _man. _And she was furious with herself over that.

She'd always, **ALWAYS **told herself she did not want to be owned by _anyone._

But then he virtually had, and she found it…enjoyable. He'd all but taken over her completely, just what she'd said would be more repulsive than anything else, and she _hadn't _disliked it, not one bit.

Christine had actually, truthfully, beyond any inkling doubt _hoped_ to belong to him. And now, even knowing she'd made the correct choice, the one she _should _have made, the one which logic agreed with, she wished she'd listened to what her heart was really telling her. But she hadn't. She'd ignored it. And now she had to live with that, every single day.

* * *

They had both savored the sensations that being together brought them.

He had felt her tremble, felt her darker side begin to give in…he'd experienced her ecstasy right along with her…he'd shared her dream and he'd been with her while she floated, fell…

They had made each other's song take flight.

His music had caressed her and he had seen her love it. He had seen her pleasure.

And still, she had left him.

But before that, she had released him from his chains. She'd unlocked the prison of his mind, and shown him the better side of life. The side full of love and joy.

She'd been his light, while he'd provided her with the dark.

And of course, you can't have night without day. You can't have one without another.

You cannot choose just one. You cannot separate the two—they're bound, permanently.

Forever.

His face had poisoned their love.

But what she'd said had disturbed and troubled him ever since she'd said it.

His soul was what she had found distorted.

It was _him _that was the problem. Not his horrid infection. He was responsible for instilling her hatred. Which caused him to hate himself _even more, _though that had always seemed impossible before. Because now, not only was he the monster he'd always been, but he'd also pushed away the one person who'd seen past that—he'd caused the only person who'd ever loved him, the only person who'd even _looked twice, _to despise him. Just thinking of this face, self-hate burbled up inside him, boiling to the top and threatening to make him implode.

She had said she'd hated him.

Her idolization of him had fallen, their hopes shattered. Hers and Raoul's? Hers and his?

She'd given him her mind, so blind and unsuspecting, and what had he done in return?

He'd soiled it. Ruined its purity. He'd destroyed her, the Christine everyone had known.

But then she'd told him he was not alone, after all. She'd shown him she was there, by his side.

She had…loved him?

And, regardless of his horrendous past, that had changed him.

He had let her go. He wanted her to go on, to _live. _He'd always known she could not live with him. Yet could he deny his false hopes? Of course not. No matter how absurd, he had them.

_The angel in hell._

That's what he'd been, to both of them. Himself and his love. His only love.

Did that mean his soul could be saved?

Was there forgiveness out there, for him?

He knew the answer already.

Not unless she gave it first.

She held the key to redemption. She held the key to releasing his past.

He had seen her look back at him, as she sang her song of the future.

He'd sung that it was over.

But perhaps…he was mistaken?

He had deceived her…he had made her hate him…but perhaps…maybe, just _maybe, _she could find it in her heart to forgive…

She had known he would hold her captive. But she knew that there was more than murderous thoughts in his eyes, and his mind. There was adoration. _Love. _Even he was capable of it.

He'd cleared her ears to a whole new way of being.

She loved him despite herself. Despite her reserve. Despite the fact she longed to escape his stare. Perhaps she had because she did not want to _see _the good there—before she'd seen it when it wasn't so apparent. She wanted to convince herself she'd imagined it…she wanted to make it possible for herself to _truly _hate him so that she could move on.

She still loved him and she always would. She loved both of those men, and she always would. _Oh, God…_

* * *

The curtain was drawn. The show had begun.

* * *

The audience was pleased, as they all knew they would be. They'd been warned of the change in male lead, being told it would be "last night's actor's understudy," and they were perfectly fine with this. Plus, they could not be upset. They'd come to see Christine and they were seeing her. Just as she was every other night. This was the Christine Daaé they all knew and cherished. Unnerved by even the biggest disturbance in the crowd. Focused solely on her part, no one else. Strong as stone, closed off from the world; the complete opposite of anything soft. No weaknesses, no exposure of the slight chance of their existence. She showed, as always, absolutely no signs of helplessness.

She was not susceptible to anything, or anyone; and her voice was strong and strong-willed as they'd always known it to be. Her voice remained constant, full, loud…

And then it came time to be the heaven scene.

* * *

"The lost one," Christine sang confidently. "The one that I have missed."

The understudy—the back-up plan—came on stage, and Christine felt a surge of relief wash through her. He would not ruin this. He was in the dark cloak as Sorrin was always supposed to have and the actor last night had had, to symbolize his arrival in paradise from hell on Earth.

The man's thick accent came—obviously imitating the German understudy from last night, as to not _totally _confuse the audience. Still, there was something…familiar…about that voice.

More than that, though. Under the accent…there was…something there…Christine couldn't put her finger on it, but she continued on, appearing as steel, as always.

Christine counted down in her head, to make sure the man made no mistakes. _He should reveal his face and we'll begin the second finale song in...3...2...1._

She turned away from him, as the script dictated she should do. She heard the cloak be thrown off, and started counting again, speaking in her mind as her character. _I will turn and see my—Priscilla's—lover, in 3…2…1…_

She twirled to face him and choked on her breath, stifling a powerful gasp. Only one thing registered in her mind:

_Mask…mask…mask…_

_No. _Her mind said sternly. _Don't mess up._

And so she continued to sing, more hesitantly now.

The audience stared intently from their seats. Why the pause? Why the downfall in her voice?

Sorrin's Understudies Understudy moved to his second position, at her side, and she turned her back to him, Priscilla's movements so heavily engraved in her brain they could not be forgotten, even now. His hands slid onto her shoulders, coming down to hold her hands, and any possible remaining speck of uncertainty or disbelief was erased entirely. The lightning bolts winding down her spine, taking their time and yet still so extraordinarily electric, told her all she needed to know. It was him. Him.

Erik. The Phantom. _My Angel. _

* * *

They both continued to sing their character's parts, but Erik felt Christine relax. He had been worried. Whenever he had watched her, he had seen her tense and impassive. She was…emotionless…dispassionate…she had seemed so detached and unresponsive to anything that came into contact with her, and her composure was unnerving.

She, in turn, felt his body tremble as tremors shot through him at an astounding speed.

She could feel his hunger, just as he felt her thirst.

* * *

They continued to sing, going through the opera's moves as planned. She turned to face him, her hands still in his.

Christine gazed into those solemn eyes as she felt her heart break.

_So grave, _She thought. _So somber. _She remembered that when she'd met him, his eyes had been dead. Now, they glistened. He'd been in disrepair, then. Now, somehow, he was not. It was possible, finally, for the very first time—he was fixable now.

Erik looked back at her—those big, touching eyes which seemed to reflect the entire world. Seemed to house everything _good _inside of them. He felt his heart beat faster. He wanted her to know it, too.

Slowly, he brought her hands up to his chest, placing them right on his heart.

Her eyes slowly closed, her mind drifting right in the middle of song, her beat synchronizing with his. She felt herself begin to weaken. She felt her breaths begin to grow short, shallow.

It was time for the finale. It was time for the near-kiss. But Christine was still wavering, weakening…

* * *

The audience was, truthfully, a bit scared.

Who was this man who made the stone-faced Miss Daaé turn to mush? Who was this man who made their brick wall _melt? _

Their stoic beauty was appearing so utterly helpless, so feeble and _powerless! _This man was…changing her, he was…taking over her…

This woman, who had before been so perfectly un-susceptible, now appeared to be the most vulnerable _young-looking _girl they'd ever seen. Her eyes softened, nearly _dissolving. _Her body began to collapse in slow-motion, the man's arms being the only things which supported her, keeping her upright. So many of the audience members were returning from last night's performance, eager to see it again, so eager, in fact, they were crammed into much too small a space. And now, look at this! It was not in the script.

This was turning out to be the most perplexing night in the history of all Opera. For them, at least. For New York.

* * *

Erik unhurriedly and carefully brought his hands up to Christine's lolling head, cradling her face in his palms. She drew a breath silently, as her breathing became more rapid.

Closing his eyes, the Phantom drew her face towards his.

The curtain closed…

Softly, with more delicacy and tenderness than Erik knew he had, he guided Christine's relaxed lips towards his as the audience's confused applause crashed around them loudly.

Their lips barely touched, but it was enough to make Christine feel completely exhilarated. She was stunned. But she was in a state of pure bliss and elation. The Phantom knew; he read it all over her face; he felt it coursing through her veins; he felt it swell inside her bones.

Christine's eyes snapped open, and, not allowing herself to think about the regret she would feel later, she dashed off, holding in her tears. She didn't care about an encore. She just needed…What did she need?

Erik followed her without a thought, darting through the crowds backstage. He did not call out. He simply pursued her.

Christine flew to the large door leading to the sun room, practically exploding with bewilderment. She quickly went behind the randomly placed wall used to block the sun in daytime. The Phantom silently drew nearer, pressing himself up against the opposite side.

The moonlight shone in, reflecting off of Christine's curls. She hadn't thought she'd lost him; not for a second. And even if she had, she never would have been able to ignore his _being there. _His absence always left a vacancy in her. That vacancy was filled as she leaned against the wood, facing the moon which flooded the room with silvery light. She knew he was there, just out of reach, just beyond the contact of touch. She felt that he was there, even though he was out of sight. She'd developed this sense long ago, so long ago, in fact, it hadn't been used in what seemed like forever—and so her body tingled, with the returning familiarity.

Turning back to the wooden separator, she put her hand on the cold oak. Judging by the shiver sent down her spine, his hand must be directly on the other side.

And it was.

They stood there, their hands pressed up against a piece of wood, the only thing visibly separating the two of them from each other. He stood in an identical position to hers, almost mimicking her, his hand pressed up against the wood at his thigh just as hers was to her own thigh, and he sensed her separated touch just as well as she did his.

Without a sound, Christine began to cry. Soon, she was weeping, and not as noiselessly. Tears streamed down her face, streaking her make-up and staining her cheeks. Her hair stuck to her chin where the moisture had collected and her ribs hurt; she was wheezing. One soundless tear rolled down the Phantom's normal-looking cheek, pooling by his nose. Her sadness made his loss be felt even stronger. He put that wet cheek up against the wall, and, wordlessly, Christine did the same, pushing her soaked cheek against the wall as well. Her fingers stretched out, as if they could touch him, and connect them physically somehow.

His voice came, wavering, through the divider, causing a new set of tears to erupt from her eyes.

"Did you think of me?" He sang in a whisper.

Christine nodded, as if he could see her, squeezing her eyes shut, as if it would make all this suffering disappear.

Secretly, she hoped it would not; but she would never admit that, not even to herself.

She felt a sense of gratefulness when she realized he hadn't vanished.

She automatically considered herself broken once more, and it made her angry—she had started to fix herself, _just _begun the process, and here he was, tearing all of that progress down.

But then he sang again, and she could not stay irritated. Her lividness melted, trickling down her face, carried by her tears, and turned into affection, despite herself and her pleas with her heart to resist him.

"Did you think of me?" He started once more, his voice stronger now. "Think of me fondly, once we'd said goodbye?" Christine's heart sped up. "Did you remember me, once in a while? Did you truly try?" His voice broke, but only gained more power. Slowly, he started to wind his way around to Christine. "Did you find, that once again, you longed to take back your heart?" He paused, but only shortly. "Or…did you not? Did you dream of me, and wake up with a start!" His voice was booming by now. But he slowed, his face peeping around the wall, hesitantly, and he met her eyes. "Please tell me, tell me, Christine, did you once more 

long to be free? But most of all," He slowed, softening. "Did you find a moment, to spare a thought for _me?_"

Christine and Erik were only inches apart, but, steadily, she started backing up, pressing her back against the cool glass of the sun-room wall.  
They sang in unison. She knew the original words, which she had sung back in Paris, and she knew just how they would be altered at this very moment.

"I wish we'd said, our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea.

But though we didn't, did you still –stop-… Remember…and think of _**me**_?"

Christine wiped her tears, stepping closer to the Phantom.

"I swear to you, I never falter_ed, _never failed to reminisce." She pronounced the syllables one at a time, reaching out to graze his face with the face of her hand, slowly, and his eyes blinked drunkenly, dragged-out and unwilling to reopen as if he was afraid she would no longer be there.

She choked on her next words. "I could never forget, never forget."

Her hand dropped. "But, tell me, now, I must know, how _did _you think of me?

Did you think, of all the things, we have shared, and –seen-?

But most of all, did you think…think of what we might have been?"

"Every day." He whispered, speaking normally. But, in an instant, his voice was once again rising, _singing, _filled with reserved passion. "I remembered you, remembered you _wak_ing, so silent, so resigned."

Christine joined him, feeling his next words waft into her mind. She shared them.

"I imagined you." They sang together. "I tried too hard to put you from my mind!"

Her voice rose, going back to her early days in opera. In Paris.

"I recalled those days, looked back, on all those times, I thought of what we would never do…

I quickly learned, there would never be a **day, **when I wouldn't _stop…_to think of you."

Her Angel's voice, and meaning, expanded in energy. "I can promise you, swear to you, every moment, _single _mo-ment, I will **always **be thinking of **you.**"

Christine smiled desolately. But her warmth was there. He saw it. It was only hidden by her despair. She sang again, and now, he was assured—he heard it in her voice.

"Just as music is my lifeline, it wouldn't be without you. For every word, of every song, brings you to by mind…therefore, inside my head, you will always be lurking, such a flawless find…"

The Phantom's voice came forcefully, sounding wistful. She heard the remembrance in his tone.

"The sound of your voice…and the way you made my eyes shine—for once in my wretched life!"

Now Christine's smile was relieved. He was there.

"Erik, I thought of you, all my busy days. Erik, I never forgot your power…nor did I forget your ways!" The Phantom shared her secret smile. His voice went down to a whisper.

"Christine. Christine…as if I had any other memories, to relive.

Christine, did I think of you? I had no choice.

For each breath I took, you were the motive.

Each movement fueled by your kiss."

Both of their songs came together, fused into one, as they began to croon in harmony.

"Did you think of me?"

Phantom started to say, "Yes, I thought of you," Only one second after Christine.

He murmured, "Every moment that I lived…" But she did not hear. She was already back into her thoughts. He sang again, to show her he was not gone just yet.

"Christine…" Her eyes snapped from their downward position, up to meet his, and they locked, two souls gazing intently into one another, unguarded, finally, and really seeing one another, fully.

"Angel…" Her smile sounded in her voice.

They were barely breathing now, holding each other gently and with hesitance. Erik wiped the one stray tear that still ran down Christine's cheek, and, to his astonishment, felt one solitary tear streak down from his eye. With ardor, Christine stood on her tip-toes, in her dark blue ballet shoes, and kissed the tear on his face, removing it with her baby-pink lips.

Their voices came, now, _together, _with fervor—

"Our love was bound, to be like evergreen…

For I thought of you, each moment…" Their voices sounded like sighs. Their lips moisture was heard as they barely moved their moves to sing.

"That you thought of _me…!_"

As they ended their eternally-strange duet, the Phantom brought his hands to the small of Christine's back. She could not believe he still had the same affect on her—she started to release any piece of her that contained caution, timidity, reason, or _logic. _She just let herself go; she gave herself up to him. Without a second thought, almost. His hands had the ability to make her forget.

Desire flooded her. His fingertips hovered over her spine, and she tingled with anticipation.

_No! _She thought. _This isn't right. You can't do this…not now…_

Her mind was telling her "no." That there'd be no getting out of this, after that.

But it wasn't just her body telling her _yes. _It was her heart, too.

* * *

Christine looked to Erik's face and was instantly mesmerized.

His face was…full of…_remorse._ Could that be?

She could read his question, all over his face. She answered it.

"You didn't make a mistake." She swallowed, gazing intently at his expression, painted with something akin to shame.

"But you didn't want me then." He murmured. "Why would you want me now?" His last words were strangled and full of that ever-present self-loathing.

"I always wanted you." She said in a soft, barely-audible whisper. "And I want you still."

_You saved me from my solitude. _He yearned to tell her one of his many honest truths. He put one of his hands around one of hers, and clutched it as if for dear life itself.

She longed to tell him her **single most** truth—_I'll want you always._

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you liked part 4 in my PHANTOMMM story! Yeah, it's realllllllyyyy long, trust me. The longest thing I've ever written, jeez. So, anyways…PLEASE give feedback, it's so majorly appreciated (seriously, I eat it up!) And part 5 is on the way. The story is now completely finished and seriously, as I said before, _the _longest thing I've ever written, to be honest...which is a tad pathetic (that the thing I write the most of isn't even technically mine)…so I hope you like to read! It's kind of complicated, too…maybe a tad **too** long…eh, oh well. PLEASE GIVE FEEDBACK. Oh, and sorry about the weird writing for the "song" things (more like a shitty reprise, but whatever). That was me attempting to write it as I'd heard it in my head...trying as I DIDN'T know how to show which parts needed emphasis in my vision of it...I know it wasn't too great. I'm not a song writer, huh? Oh, well. I did my best! : Hey, I wonder if anyone even reads my stupid, rambling author's notes? I guess it doesn't matter...sorry. I'll stop now. Still in the process of learning to control my over-talking (or, typing??).


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